Red Leaf
by KhakiSuperBunny
Summary: James Bond 007 - A man who can get the job done, will he be able to save the day from a new terrorist threat? - M for a reason
1. Chapter 1 The Turk

A/N - I don't own anything! including Bond! Enjoy

Chapter 1 – The Turk

**Location: HAWK Safe House - 21mi south of Dedeler, Turkey: 1028hrs**

Bond was cold, exhausted and dehydrate...double o seven was dying.

The price came with the job. A man in his line of work knew that his life expectancy decreased dramatically once he said his pledge to Queen and country, took his assigned Walther PPK; his weapon of choice, from the armoury and stepped out of the doors of MI6s' headquarters in London since achieving the highly sought – double o licence – his licence to kill.

How far had this orphan from Cambridge come in his thirty six years on planet earth? Bond reminiscing in the simple wicker chair he was now bound to; bloodied and beaten after eight days straight of interrogation.

He thought back to his days at Cambridge University. Flashbacks of playing for the rugby team, poking fun at the fifty something year old lecturer trying to give a speech about social dynamics, the sandy haired girl he promised to love unconditionally. What was her name? Catherine? God he missed her, it'd been so very long, and his heart ached at the thought of her death at the hands of a drunk driver. He'd had so many conquests when it came to women, but the memory of those three nights when she, Cathy was his will haunt him till the end of days.

He snapped out of his thoughts. He needed to focus, not dwell on the past. To lose focus was to lose the game. Something he couldn't afford to do now. Not when he was so close. So close to the end.

It was becoming harder however. Every interrogation bought new pain, new injuries. His life was hanging by a thread, and he knew it.

The door burst open, warm, fresh air wafted through the opening as well as the scent of cooking spices and meat, before being slammed shut again by his interrogator, snapping Bond back to reality.

"Back for more eh?" rasped double o seven, the bruising to his ribcage making it painful to deliver his one liner.

'The Turk' stood there and regarded the sight before him, smirking at his handiwork. Surely it couldn't be long now until this pig from British intelligence would spill about what he knew about his employers' pet project.

This 'James Bond' had killed four of his best men before making his getaway in a rusty red pickup truck. His remaining men soon caught up with the spy, thanks largely to the sleek, black curves of his private helicopter watching the escapees every move from above like a kestrel. It didn't take much to make the pickup to enter a violent roll once his henchmen's SUVs moved in for the kill.

They dragged Bond out of the wreck and drove him four hours, hooded, to an isolated location where 'The Turk' could begin his bloody work.

"Yes Mr Bond...I am 'back for more', I thought we could continue our little chat about what it _is _you know of hawk", the tanned faced man spoke in a thick Turkish accent, spoken from the full lips of a stubbled, square jawed face. His curly black hair was pulled back and greasy. The Turk was just under double o sevens height – about five foot nine and chubby; the combination of an easy life and one too many kebabs over the years.

Bonds adversary pulled out his pistol from his jeans belt and tapped it on the wooden side table placed next to where Bond sat before setting it down.

Bond sniggered, "A chat? That's what you call this is it? Remind me not to invite you 'round for a cup of tea".

With that The Turk backhanded James across the face, hard. Bonds already cracked cheekbone throbbing from the car crash days previous flared in pain from the strike. Double o seven didn't have time to recover before The Turk was in his face.

"What do you know?" The man roared, spittle flecking Bonds face.

"That you need mouthwash you bastard" Bond coughed, earning himself further onslaught from The Turk; punching, and slapping Bond in the face and in the stomach.

This carried on for what seemed like hours to Bond, but in reality was only five minutes. This kind of interrogation had gone on for days, hours at a time. The Turk was smart enough to beat James enough to intimidate, but never render Bond useless, how could he interrogate an unconscious man. The Turks patience however, was wearing thin.

Bonds mind drifted again to Catherine, her naked, milky white body pressed to his in an embrace. She was so warm, he regarded her with his ice blue eyes, pulling a strand of hair from her lips and tucking it behind her ear.

"**Focus Bond" **he told himself, so close, he could feel it, with one last tug, and he was there, but stayed as still as possible.

The Turk ceased pummelling double o seven to ask again, "What do you know of hawk you piece of shit!" Bond stayed silent, "Fine, it is clear to me now Mr Bond that I shall not learn anything from you...I'm afraid that now, I have to kill you", and leaned over the table for his pistol. As his fingers brushed the pistol grip, he heard something and retracted his hand. Mumbling,, he could hear his quarry mumbling something. Had he done it? Had he finally broken him? "What was that Mr Bond?" leaning closer.

"I s-ipd m r-ps", Bond mumbled

"Talk properly! You son of a bitch!" yelled The Turk. He grabbed double o sevens collar (what was left of it anyway) in his meaty fist and leaned closer still so he could hear the British Agent.

James Bond; double o seven, whispered, "I slipped my ropes".

Head butting The Turk, breaking the tanned skinned mans nose, Bond stood up, a loose rope hanging but still tied to his left wrist, his right arm free. Water filled Bonds assailants wide eyes, opened wide shear shock.

Bond had been working on prying those ropes loose for days; since the Turks henchmen re-tightened them, undoing James' subtle work first time around.

The Turk reared back, dark crimson blood running freely down his face, pitter pattering as the blood slapped the floor. Bond followed with a brutal uppercut that made The Turk think his head would be ripped off from the impact. Bond chased that up with a knee to the man's balls; why play fair this late in the game.

The Turk doubled over, trying to wretch from the impact to his sensitive genitalia, but couldn't, the blood restricting his breathing, and tried to stand up again, tackling Bond in his half standing stance, rushing him into the wall on the other side of the room, James' skull making a rounded crack as it connected with plaster.

The Turks henchmen; bored at the sound of beatings twenty hours a day for the last four days had elected to turn on the television – the world cup was on, and more than several of the group had bets on for Turkey to beat Cameroon. They were blissfully unaware of what was going on next door. If their Boss needed them, he'd come for them.

Head spinning, Bond knew he wouldn't and couldn't last much longer, he was draining his last reserves of energy, knowing he had to finish this quickly and as quietly as possible, he elbowed the man in the spine and rounded on The Turk from behind and pulled the rope; still attached to his wrist, around the chubby mans neck and pulled with everything he had.

The Turks eyes bulged, and he gasped for air. He thrashed around, trying to make a purchase on his attacker; hair, clothing, anything, something to stop the rope from digging into his neck any further. An idea flashed into his oxygen starved brain, and pushed back with all his might, the momentum toppling the duo backwards onto the concrete floor.

The two hundred pound man landed on top of double o seven with an "oof". Sharpe, stabbing pain flared up Bonds' chest, as several of his already tortured ribs finally gave way and fractured, on piercing Bonds right lung, "**No No! so close!" **thought double o seven, releasing his grip on the rope that paralyzed The Turk in place to instinctively clutch his chest.

For good measure, The Turk elbowed double o seven in the stomach as he got up, before kicking him in the head, and rubbed his throat "Insolent shit! You're mine now!" the man gurgled, clutching his nose to stem the continuous flow of blood from his break and stumbled towards the table, overturned sometime during the fight to find his sidearm, "Nobody makes a fool out of me!" directed at no-one in particular"

Bond stared into oblivion, dazed, drifting in and out of consciousness from his injuries. Breathing was becoming harder; the pain was like fire burning across his chest.

Everything ached, he felt like his body must have weighed two tonnes because of his exhaustion. He closed his eyes and could see Catherines' face again, she was saying something, double o seven strained to hear his memory over the sound of blood rushing through his ears. "What did you say Cathy?" asked the man, laying on the floor of a dingy safe house somewhere in Turkey, his mind believing his was back n her old flat in Magdalene Street in Cambridge, England. "I said I love you Jason".

Jason? Why did she call me Jason? It was before I joined the service, it cant be a cover name…why did that name sound so familiar? Double o seven frowned, and then it clicked. Jason. Jason Monroe that was his name, the name he was given when Ben and Maggie adopted him when he was no more than nine months old. Jason Monroe was his real name. He'd been living under the alias of James Bond for so many years that he'd forgotten.

The Turk had found his pistol, and staggered back towards the man on the floor he knew as the British secret service agent; James Bond. Why did he look so at peace? He should be cowering before him, knowing that he was about to lose everything surely. It didn't matter he thought; so long as he was dead by the end. The Turk stood over him and pointed his gun at the man's chest, the man who lay on the floor in front of him sighed.

"Any last words, _Mr _Bond", said the man, sneering.

He didn't know, Bond, Monroe shook himself out of his stupor. He supposed he should make it something patriotic, something worthy of a Hollywood movie, something the hero always manages to come up with before the cavalry arrived.

But why give the fat man the satisfaction. In the end he thought of something fitting. "You should go on a diet you fat piece of shit". Rasped double o seven and turned his head away.

"A joker till the end" stated The Turk. And pulled the trigger.

Pain, immense pain as the rounds entered his body. The first and second shot collapsed his working lung; the third nicked the artery surrounding his heart.

As everything faded, he was back in Cambridge, in Catherines flat. The time he was happiest. Jason Monroes'; James Bond', Double O Sevens' last thought, was leaning in to kiss Catherine one last time. Then everything went dark.

All Hell broke loose, the lights went out, an almighty crack sounded in the night air as plated steel peeled off its hinges and into the outer room of the brick walled safe house, killing a henchman sitting at the table opposite eating his dinner, crushed by the concussive force of the explosion and the heavy door, leaving a gory red streak up the wall.

The SAS team filed in one by one, moving like liquid, filling the room, each man fitted with a pair of night vision goggles, executed the dazed henchmen, still reeling from the blast in the pitch black of night. The Turks hired men never stood a chance, only one of them managed to raise his Russian made AK47. He didn't get chance to pull the trigger. Each man was double tapped; one shot to the chest and one to the head.

The British Special Forces made short work of the first room of the three roomed bungalow, killing six men in a heartbeat. The team moved to the next door and kicked it down. To be confronted with a man holding a gun, stumbling around in the dark, he was bleeding profusely from the face. At his feet lay a body, gunshot wounds to the chest the body, the teams priority extract target wasn't moving.

"Put the gun down, down!" yelled the men in unison, the aim; to intimidate. The Turk, a coward at heart, knowing that there was no way he could out gun the 6 men confronting him, raised his hands to the air, "Don't shoot, don't shoot!" pleaded the chubby executioner; the teams secondary target – capture dead or alive – preferably alive.

"Put it down!" yelled one of the Special Forces soldiers; a burly man , known to his team as Pikey. He grabbed the Turks arm, and wrestled him to the floor. Three men went to check the last room at the back of this one. Ten seconds later the fire team leader heard his squad repeat "Clear".

"Clear, building secure" replied the fire team leader.

A/N...Ok, so as you can probobly tell by now (hopefully) this isn't your typical Bond story, the aim was to make him a bit more human - less immortal.

I intend to read the orginal novels by Mr Flemming at some point, so my story is going off what I've learnt from the movies. Following chapters are aimed at sharing my idea of how we can have different Bonds/actors as well as developing its own story line.

If you can, please review, this is my first 'proper' attempt at writing a serious story. (I promis to keep these A/Ns to a minimum in the future).

Thanks for reading!

Khaki


	2. Chapter 2 The Candidate

A/N I don't own anything! Including Bond!

Chapter 2 – Candidate

**Location: Black Ops C130 Hercules – 33,000 feet - 17mi north east of Diego de Almagro, Chile: 0828hrs**

Martin Day stood on the edge of the loading ramp of the C130 Hercules he was 'hitchhiking' on and stared at the broken cloud cover below, clutching the hydraulic pole that held the ramp in place.

Between the patches of pearly white and a lake grey he could see the rises and depressions of the red foothills in Chile, the height they were at and the shape of the contours, one could mistake the ground for a rough, red coloured sea, occasionally he could see the odd twinkle of light, shining like a distant star.

The sun was just setting on the horizon, it was the type of view Day mused that could be on a postcard, peering out through the dark, toughened glass visor of his helmet.

By all accounts Martin Day: an ex paratrooper with the British Army should be suffering from frostbite; at -55° Centigrade. However he wore a special polypropylene long sleeved t-shirt and matching long johns as well as several layers of warm clothing on top including his combat jacket and trousers **"It's still bloody cold"** Day thought.

He wore a dark grey helmet; the kind you find on a head of a fighter pilot as well as his tactical oxygen mask, which was essential; one unaided breath at this altitude and the arterial nitrogen levels in his blood would climb to a dangerous level, eventually making him loose consciousness – unacceptable.

Not to mention all the other equipment he had to carry, parachute. automatic parachute activation device, knife, altimeter and his firearm – a Walther P99 and its silencer, which he was issued before he departed to the airfield; they gave him a choice of several, but the P99 was in his eyes the best of the bunch: semi automatic, firing nine millimetre rounds over sixty metres at four hundred and eight metres a second it was a pistol to be reckoned with…plus he liked the weight, in his hands it just felt…right.

His mission was simple enough; at least, he thought so. He went over it in his head. Infiltrate the traitors mansion in the foothills surrounding Diego de Almagro, hack the computer, kill the traitor. Oh and jump from thirty two thousand feet, free fall at nearly one hundred and sixty miles per hour and open the chute at two and a half thousand feet, without dyeing in the process.

He'd only trained for a HALO (High-Altitude Low Opening) jump a half dozen times before when he was lucky enough to train with Navy SEAL Team Six some years ago. With his background and training however, he was deemed the right man for the job.

His reward, he hoped; acceptance into the double o programme.

"**Like taking candy from a baby" **Day reassured himself, staring into the cool grey of the clouds below.

One minute till jump.

He considered his first kill – nearly a month ago now. The girl had given him a lovely parting gift, a two inch scar along his left cheek. She was some major player for the Japanese Triads in Germany apparently, planning to attack a shipment of supplies bound for Camp Bastion in Afghanistan, and then selling the haul on the black market for a tidy profit.

The bitch had to go.

He owed the doctors of Camp Bastion for saving his life. A bullet, courtesy of some Taliban sniper hit him just above the pelvis on his right hand side. It spun him around like some sort of sick spinning top. He would have and should have bled out if it wasn't for his squads' medic, the helicopter pilot and the team of doctors at Bastion.

He'd eventually cornered her in a dingy hotel in Berlin. Away from her bodyguards and after a brief and interesting scuffle; she'd had a hidden blade up her sleeve, he'd managed to put a bullet between her eyes. The operation she was planning; fell to pieces without her. The shipment was safe for now. His recollection of his last words to her made him chuckle in his breathing mask, "You shouldn't of brought a knife to a gun fight".

He wasn't as conflicted as he thought he'd be about killing a woman. His entire life he was bought up to believe hitting girls was bad etcetera. In the end deciding it was absolutely necessary; to save – possibly hundreds of ISAF lives in the coming months .could only be for the greater good.

Thirty seconds.

Day steadied his breathing. He stared into the vastness of sky before him, he began his routine of focusing, which he did before every combat jump he'd ever taken part in. Everything seemed to slow down, the noise of the wind rushing past; the hum of the propellers, all he could think of was the mission at hand.

His ear crackled, jolting him out of his zone. The pilot, locked in her pressurised cabin to save her and her co-pilot from the effects of the high altitude was hailing him. "Wait for the green light Señor Day", her voice was like caramel, smooth and golden.

Working for the Columbian Intelligence Agency; the DAS for short, She had opted in for the mission almost immediately. Their cover was that they were piloting for their countries government, delivering aid to the earthquake stricken city of Coyhaique in the far south of Chile.

It just so happened that their route took them high over Diego de Almagro, five miles out they would suffer a hydraulics problem, dropping the rear loading ramp before being fixed some minutes later. What the Chilean authorities' wouldn't be told is that the aircraft had 'dropped' off a member of British Secret Service during their malfunction.

"Thanks for the ride Lopez, although I didn't think much of the in flight movie…oh and your air hostess really needs to work on his manners" Day said smoothly, the last part referring to her co pilot. A gruff, ape like man with a short stubbly beard and greying hair, Day had nicknamed him 'Silverback' on their long flight south together.

She laughed, and in the background Day could hear Silverback cursing in his mother tongue, Day was positive he made out the word 'Gringo'

"Anytime Señor Day, I'll make sure our staff brush up on their manners when you next visit" she cooed; she was no doubt still suffering from the after effects from a dose of Martin Day before the flight.

"Get ready Señor… Tres, dos, uno, saltar, jump, jump!", as she called out, the traffic lights, placed just inside the door shined a bright green, on any other occasion, signalling, for those without headsets that it was time to depart the aircraft.

With one last deep breath, he let go of the hydraulic bar and fell into the void.


	3. Chapter 3 The 00

A/N I don't own anything! Including Bond…enjoy!

Chapter 3 - The 00

**Location: MI6 Headquarters, London, England – 36 hours later after agent tactical insertion**

M sat in the information centres (IC) conference room; a large, glass panelled room at the end of a larger room housing the organisations information gatherers. Banks upon banks of ordered rows of desks neatly sat next to each other facing a wall of television screens. Any observer could have mistaken the room as a telemarketing floor in a high rise. The information gatherers here however were collecting and collating details on a hundred different operations, targets, field agents and their countries allies.

Some of the huge fifty inch monitors on the far wall displayed news channels, others target and operative information and some displaying satellite movements and information. Or all could be joined to make one massive screen the size of a small lounge' floor plan.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see the headline on the BBC News channel which caught her interest – the middle aged man sitting at his news desk with a stern, weathered and unsmiling face sat reading the news off the unseen teleprompter. The subtitles of his speech read "the "body of aid worker killed in a car crash in Turkey – Jason Monroe flown back to the UK today. The funeral service will be held tomorrow in Cambridge" it was short and uninteresting, just how she wanted it to be; a news story that would be forgotten about by tomorrow when some celebrity gave birth or the results of the latest sporting event would become more important.

If only the poor fools knew the truth about who the man, who's smiling image, amongst a dozen African children; a photo shopped image of course, actually was and what he was involved in trying to stop.

"Ma'am, is everything OK?" said the man to her left, he had dark hair, soft brown eyes and a triangular jaw. He wore a dark navy suit, white shirt, blue tie combination. Bill Tanner had been her aide for years, and knew when she was distracted.

"Fine Tanner" said M, snapping back into reality and checked her watch, "When the bloody hell is he going to get here, we've already been waiting for over fifteen minutes".

"He'll be here momentarily Ma'am, I've just had Ms. Walters…on the front desk…contact me to let me know he's on his way in" explained Tanner.

"Well I don't like it, the man wants to be a double o agent yet he's fifteen minutes late to the meeting that decides if he's fit for duty or not!" exclaimed M, unable to mask her frustration any longer.

"He's worth it, I can vouch for him Ma'am" said the other man sitting opposite her.

This man was not like Tanner; quite the opposite in fact. He had the physique of an athlete; square jawed with a tuft of thick blond hair on his head. His sly mouth framed by a hazel coloured goatee. His suit was midnight black, like he was going to a funeral, and he wore a black shirt without the tie, something which irked M no end. If he wasn't such an asset shed have had him fired a long time ago.

"And what makes you so sure Mr Whyte?" said M, raising an eyebrow.

"Because I saw firsthand what he and another member of his squad did to stop an bomb maker in Helmand, damn fine work, even if it was against his commanding officers orders…he's committed, patriotic and well trained, and let's not forget he scored 131 on the agency IQ test…he _is_ our man" Whyte was efficient, using only enough gestures that was necessary, but that was to be expected from the longest serving double o agent – thirteen years and counting.

"All I hear from that is he doesn't follow orders" said M, massaging her right temple, she could feel the onset of a headache.

"On the contrary" said Tanner, "Apart from the one or two incidents he's by the book, only going off course when he can see a better outcome, he's a chess player Ma'am, two moves ahead the entire time", Tanner steepled his fingers.

Before M had time to respond, double o five; Mr Whyte, coughed, signalling that Day had just walked into the IC and was making his way to them.

He had a slight limp – an injury sustained on the last operation, but nothing that wouldn't heal itself in a day or two. Day was a relatively tall, broad shouldered man. Like Whyte he was slim, a body of a gym and swimming enthusiast. The scar on his left cheek had now healed completely, leaving a light; almost white line across the top of his cheek in contrast to his outdoorsman coloured skin which he possessed. His hair was styled and cut smartly, the colour of dark chocolate, but a light oak in the sunlight. He carried himself proudly – s result of years on the parade ground. On his way through he earned more than a few looks from the female analysts and a respectable amount from the male analysts too.

"**Great…another ladies man"** thought M.

If the spy industry needed poster boys, Day would definitely be a candidate.

Martin Day opened the door to the spacious conference room and greeted the three occupants individually, shaking hands as if it were a business meeting, apologising for his lateness.

Tanner picked up a remote which lay next to his hands and depressed the green rubber button at the top, polarising the windows surrounding the conference room, ensuring the small group had privacy.

Day had only met Tanner previously; he was the man who had briefed him on the last two assignments. He'd heard of the white haired, steel faced mustang known simply as M; head of MI6s operations. The blonde haired man he'd never seen before, but the way he stood, and how he seemed to investigate Days very soul by peering into his own ivy green eyes, he could tell he was a spook, and immediately didn't trust him.

After the brief greetings it was straight down to business.

Day sat at the end of the Mahogany desk; he felt the layout was to intimidate. It was like having his first job interview; at a respectable food superstore for the role of checkout assistant, all over again. Day though, was not that easily intimidated.

"Let's get to it then Mr Day, give me a report on Chile, I hear it all went without any major problems, and please keep it short. I have a meeting with the Prime Minister in half an hour. And he, unlike me is not as forgiving for being late" stated M, having a pop at the double o candidates tardiness.

"Again, my apologies Ma'am, you understand how London traffic can be" apologised Day, he couldn't say the real reason that he was late was because he'd decided to show a voluptuous blonde divorcee whom he met at an old English pub a good time last night – subsequently sleeping through his alarm clock. In hindsight, perhaps going for drinks not long after stepping off the plane was such a good idea.

"The operation went smoothly. I dropped in via HALO jump, thanks to our friends in the DAS, I landed roughly a mile north of the targets house and moved as soon as I'd disposed of my jump gear".

Whyte nodded, Tanner made notes.

What followed was a detailed, but concise description of the mission, describing how he was able to sneak in after distracting those on sentry duty with a decoy before making his way inside to find his targets office, where he inserted 'Mantis'.

"Excuse me if this is out of place, but what exactly was that stick doing?" asked Day

Tanner looked over at M who nodded her head before he gave an explanation. He at least tried to; Whyte beat him to the punch.

"That piece of equipment, in a nutshell, broke into his computer, collated all the information from the marks contacts, secure documents etcetera. Once the download of all that information had finished the hardware uploaded a malicious virus which effectively destroyed all the information on that console whilst sending a worm algorithm to all those on his contact list for us to monitor…"

"A handy bit of kit then" Day quipped.

"Indeed" said Tanner, scowling at double o five. Whilst M remained watching the man in front of her, ignoring the 'lovers tiff' developing between her aide and the secret agent.

Tanner followed, turning his attention back towards Day, "With the information you gathered we now have the IP addresses of all those he had dealings with, which when the man was dealing in the arms industry, specialising is selling stolen British missile guidance software, means we can find out where our 'products' ended up".

Day was impressed; he didn't get the full run down in his brief before he set off from the private airfield in rural Hertfordshire to Chile. Just told to get to the target computer, and insert the USB.

"Carry on" pressed M.

The spy candidate went on to describe how he had to avoid detection in his office and wait for his target; the previous Minister for Defence Equipment and Support – David Principal.

Once the man finally arrived home after three hours he found his computer, error codes, the screen flashing like it was a performance at an illegal rave. As he reached for the phone to call an IT support desk he saw the shadow in the corner – Day. After a brief exchange, Day telling him he was a traitor to his country, Principal denying everything of course, Martin Day 'disposed' of him.

Day sighed.

"Is there anything else worth mentioning Mr Day?" questioned M, checking her watch again.

"No ma'am, a brief tussle with a guard whilst trying to acquire a ride out, but he was…incapacitated and I made my escape to the extraction zone".

"Good", M looked at the two men sitting beside her for confirmation which they duly gave with a curt nod. "I'm happy with what you've told us, we'll have to fill in some paper work, send you for a psych test, you know the drill. Provisionally. I'd like to offer you a job".

Days heart began to beat faster, his eyes widened a little, it was what he'd been waiting for.

"I want you to work for us, I'm granting you double o status, effective immediately - once I get the results from the shrink of course, providing its all good news, I'll clear you for active duty"

A satisfied smile tugged at the corner of Days lips.

"If you accept my offer, you will leave your old life behind, Martin Day will vanish from records until I see fit"

"I accept Ma'am" Martin said coolly, not needing time to consider his answer.

"Very well…" M took a deep breath, and opened a dossier on the table in front of her labelled [CLASSIFIED: EYES ONLY] in big, bold red ink. The front page described the man in front of her, his career details, personal description as well as a mug shot of him, which would be eventually blacked out. She signed the dotted line next to the phrase'00 Approval:' and dated it.

"Once you leave this room you will be known as James Bond, Agent Double O Seven".

That was it, what he'd been working towards for three years, his hard work, blood, sweat and tears (literally in all three cases) had been worth something after all. The name sounded familiar however, Day having worked on the defence intelligence staff after coming out of the army heard whispers of a James Bond, secret operational intelligence gathering, providing equipment support. He never asked questions, but it didn't mean he didn't remember the name.

"James Bond Ma'am? The name sounds familiar" Day questioned.

Tanner shared a precautionary glance with M, who continued, there was no point leaving the poor bastard in the dark, with the things she'd be asking him to do during his employment under her, he might as well know.

"Yes…I suspected a man as observant as you probably has heard the name, knowing what you've been involved in. The truth is, Mr D…Bond, You're the next in a long line of James Bonds' There has been a James Bond since the sixties - the height of the Cold War", M nodded towards the handsome blonde man sitting next to her, who remained facing forward, intently watching the newest addition to MI6s' arsenal.

"And there will forever be a James Bond. It keeps things…simple. Some Bonds have eventually served their time and gone on to bigger, better things…others…have not been so lucky" said M, sitting back in her chair, she felt a pang of guilt as she remembered Bonds predecessor, one of the few Bonds she actually liked, the notion of her telling him so of course was ludicrous. "That is all I'm willing to divulge on the subject, you already know more than you should".

M got up to leave, being the gentlemen they were all three men stood up with her.

"Tanner, re-programme his access card to show his new identity, take him to Dr Hanzge for his psych evaluation and when he's done, take him down to Q division for tagging. If that is all gentlemen, I must leave for the Prime Minister, good evening" she stepped towards the door, the windows de-polarising. As she placed a hand on the door handle she turned and nodded to the three men in turn, "Tanner, Whyte, Bond…don't make me regret my decision". In one fluid movement she was gone, making her way towards the elevators and the car park beneath the building.

A/N...Review please, lots of readers, no reviews, it not only spurs me on but also shows me what I can improve on. You guys are awesome if that helps...


	4. Chapter 4 The Morning

A/N – I don't own anything...including Bond! Please review! Enjoy

Chapter 4 – The Morning

**2 Years Later – Location: Bond residence, Pont Street, London, England: 0455hrs**

It had been twenty five months since Bond accepted the job offer from M. Twenty five months that had changed his life.

Gone was the ex paratrooper, the socialite who would always be down the local pub, gone was the man who enjoyed to sit down in front of his telly, wearing his Everton FC shirt watching the game, can of lager in hand. This by no means meant that his previous self was a lay about, on the contrary, the man just knew what he enjoyed.

But he was gone, _erased from the records_ until his boss saw fit.

The official line, told to any of his close friends was that he had been called back to Afghanistan immediately as an advisor for an extended but undisclosed period of time. With a family who no longer cared about what happened to him, it was easy to slip away, eventually being forgotten about over time.

In the place of his previous self was a suave, sophisticated gentleman who knew the difference between a glass of Château Bauduc, Bordeaux blanc**and a glass of Castle Valandraud Saint-Emilion – besides the colour. He had become one of the best in the business and in such a short space of time, leaving the likes of Tanner, more than impressed at how Bond picked these types of thing up so quickly. **

Over the last twenty five months he had planted the seeds of treachery among the ranks of an African warlord, whose crimes against humanity made double o sevens stomach turn – Bond made sure the warlords personal army tore itself apart from the inside, before 'giving' the dictator to a local tribe to dispense their own brand of justice.

And only last week arrived home after stopping a deluded Swedish genius who threatened to release billions of nanobots into the hub that controlled the world's internet. Smaller ops also ticked along at their own pace, but those two were the ones Bond felt would look good on his resume – if the operations weren't top secret that is.

Sickly yellow purple bruises mottled his left thigh and abdomen from the confrontation in Sweden with his targets bear of a bodyguard. It still hurt to roll over when he tried to sleep. It was all worth it.

As always, he woke up five minutes before his alarm went off, but stayed in bed until his phone chimed at five a-m. It was his first day back to work after three days R&R, a novelty, it could only mean those higher up were impressed by his performance in the country known best for its creation of the Nobel Prize…and ABBA.

His new flat – provided by Her Majesties government was more spacious than some of the houses he'd lived in before he accepted his new rlife. Located on Pont Street in the heart of London's' Knightsbridge, his bedroom alone boasted floor to ceiling windows – the view some mornings could be particularly spectacular – when he was at home to take in the view that was.

He climbed out of bed and headed to the shower; the bathroom being his favourite room in the flat – when he arrived home from Africa he stayed in the scolding hot shower until the water ran cold.

He scrubbed rigorously, turning his skin red from the abrasive flannel. Not only would he feel cleaner, he also ran less risk of leaving any DNA evidence anywhere like skin particles or hair. He ritually carried out this routine every morning.

After finishing up in the bathroom he headed to his walk in wardrobe – the extensiveness of his clothing selection would make even most women jealous. Today he decided on the bespoke suit from the prestigious Anderson & Sheppard tailors on London's' Savile Row. It was matte silver in colour with three buttons and was, of course tailored very well, showing off Bonds athletic build. He complemented it with a plain white shirt and charcoal coloured skinny tie and black loafers. After adding his Rolex– he was ready.

On the way out the English oak door to the elevator, he activated the apartments' security systems which consisted of an advanced motion sensor and the hidden camera network. Whilst waiting for the elevator to complete its slow assent he checked his phone – a extensively modified IPhone, it was affectionately dubbed the IQPhone thanks to the technicians in the Q labs. He was looking for any recent alerts or activity during the night. Amongst the top three for today were; A splinter cell in Israel threatening the new peace plan, a CIA operative gone AWOL in rural China and a security breach at a MoD testing lab, Bond sighed; it was going to be another regular day at the office.

After a quick ride – if rather annoying, thanks to the vanilla soft jazz playing in the background in the elevator down into the buildings underground car park, Bond stepped out keys in hand and made his way to his personal parking bay – number 22.

It stood before him, like a wild cat waiting to pounce – adequate seeing as his (company) car was a twelve plate Jaguar XKR. But like most of Bonds' toys and gadgets, it had been extensively modified by the Q division. Indeed his comment to the divisions' head – the Japanese born Moe Shiori, only received a blank stare. Bond at least thought "you pimped my ride!" was actually rather funny and put it down to Shiori not getting out much.

After closing the cars door he initiated its security protocol, he pressed his thumb on the thumb print scanne, cleverly disguised as the engine start button. This confirmed Bonds identity and automatically ran a diagnostic check of the sports car. Not only making sure it was running smoothly, it also ran a mini CAT scan for any foreign object on, or attached to the vehicle, sounding three beeps to give the all clear, before wireless reporting to Q division of the activation of the vehicle. The engine then started, as would any other run-of-the-mill Jaguar. All of this took place in the space of three hundredths of a second.

The car gave a guttural warble as it idled. One of Bonds guilty pleasures was listening to the car's engine notes, very rarely ever having the radio on.

At the flick of a concealed switch the centre console of the car flipped over to show an information screen which could show anything on the MI6 intranet database, GPS and even contained target acquisition software, allowing Bond to see what he was chasing through the thickest fog.

The traditional glove box was replaced by three draws. The top, secured by a four digit key pad contained a fully functioning Walther P99, silencer and two clips of ammunition; Granted, it was illegal to carry a firearm in Great Britain without a special permit (which he was infact in possession of) - his jurisdiction after all was not the UK itself, but abroad – home soil situations being dealt with by MI5. Permission could be approved, and he'd never be in any real trouble for being in possession; a quick police check would confirm ho he infact worked for, but rules were rules.

Tthe second contained basic medical supplies such as epinephrine, thermal blanket, bandages and a mini defibrillator. The third drawer, again securely locked could be used to house sensitive documents. The three drawers were contained in a shell made of the same materials airliner black boxes are constructed of, ensuring the supplies and documents inside remained intact and safe should the worst happen.

The engine had also been upgraded, the five litre v eight engine had been upgraded to a six litre v twelve supercharged engine, a better braking system and racing suspension had also been installed. There wasn't much that could get away from Bond should he need to give chase.

All of this was topped off with the original chassis being replaced by a lightweight, bulletproof metal alloy, again a composite which the Q branch had designed and engineered. The glass also being reinforced and bullet resistant, and in case of an emergency, could – like fighter aircraft cockpit canopies, disintegrate at the push of a button to allow the driver a means of escape.

James Bond loved this car.

The Jaguar rolled out of the gated underground car park and turned left, travelling the short route he'd travelled a hundred times over. Before he knew it he was upon Vauxhall Bridge, 'The Office' now just around the corner.

"**I really must take the Jag out to the country soon...stretch its legs"** thought Bond, lamenting on his short drive to work every morning. He didn't take the car into the Kent countryside enough, a shame, since one of his favourite pastimes was to drive.

He was soon past the security checks and parked. He was even in before Lynsey Chartwell, his personal assistant – a rarity, a lack of boyfriend and social life in general usually made her extremely anal about her timekeeping. Her parking spot where her black Honda Civic usually sat was vacant. Bond would enjoy playfully mocking her about her tardiness this morning. Her heart shaped face turning a light shade of red when she became exasperated.

He liked Lynsey; he looked upon her as a smarter, younger sister. They got on like a house on fire from day one, and she always got him exactly what he'd request – often before he'd ask for it. About eight months ago she was roughed up on a chance meeting with an ex boyfriend. Bond personally made sure he suffered an accident with a set of stairs at the high rise apartment block where the ex lived. **"Those wet stairs can be a death-trap"** reflected Bond. The fall didn't kill the gangly; baseball cap wearing man just ensured he was bound to a wheelchair for the following six months.

Another short elevator ride later he was on the tenth floor; "Overseas Development Group or ODG for short. The floor was sparse, like the IC the centre of the room was populated with a swath of desks, and several interactive 'tablet' tables.

M's office was located on this floor also, in the corner to his right, her secretary; Moneypenny was already sitting at her desk, tapping away at her laptop, and she gave him a smile as he walked out the elevator, which Bond mimicked.

"We really must stop meeting like this Moneypenny, people will begin to talk", Bond held his smile and adjusted his jacket.

The dainty, red head with sort cropped hair stopped her tapping and tilted her head to the side, "James, I heard you enjoyed your time in Sweden, perhaps next time you could bring me back some meatballs", She pouted.

"If you want dinner Moneypenny, all you have to do is ask" Bond replied, truthfully he had a soft spot for Elizabeth Moneypenny, she had an attractive wit about her that, and a fine set of legs. It was rumoured she was M's daughter, and although Bonds profession was hear say, he didn't believe a word of it.

"You're on" she purred, "tonight, nine o'clock Le Troquet on Kings Road…don't be late James", with that she pick up the case files on her desk and strode into M's office. They had been out for dinner several times, each time Bond feeling slightly more interesting than the last

Double o seven made a mental note and headed to his office – identified by a brass number seven..

Bond glanced at the laminated green clock on the opposite side of the room, flanked either side by similar clacks showing the time in different time zones. It was seven forty three a-m. – Fantastic company arranged for the evening already, and it wasn't even eight a-m.

He circumnavigated the centre of the office, a few people already at their desks either on the phone, on their laptops or working through paperwork ignored him as they got on with the tasks set for them. The floor would soon be at its normal capacity, once people had made their way through London traffic.

Bond unlocked his office door with the thumb print scanner, sat at his desk and switched on the laptop in front of him.

That's when he felt it.

A rumble.

It was enough to rattle the strengthened, polarised window behind him. Having three tours of Afghanistan under his belt, there was no way he could mistake the feeling of an explosive being detonated at a distance, and seeing as he was in a building which offered three foot thick walls, it must have been substantial.

Claxons rang.

Damn it, what was the meaning of the pitch and wail of this particular alarm. Bond struggled to remember, there are at least seven different alarms for seven different situations, and orientation was so long ago.

Then it hit him like a charging Bull.

A/N - Anderson & Sheppard Tailors I hear you ask? Playing too much Mass Effect have we Khaki? It _is_ actually a real tailors found in London! Credit where credit is due, I've taken a little inspiration from 'Carte Blanche' in this chapter.


End file.
